Kathryn
has set her sights on the most
wanted bachelor in Denver. But,
once she realizes his love is
worth more than his loot, will
she be forgiven?

Avon · isbn:
0-380-80497-2

The
Most Wanted
Bachelor went
back to press!
Many thanks
to all of you
who gave a book
a good home. (posted
8.02)

The
Most
Wanted
Bachelor was
a Romantic
Times
BOOKclub Top
Pick
for
June
(Yes,
this
is good
~ this
means
that
one
of the
top
reviewing
magazine's
picked
BACHELOR
as one
of the
top
books
for
June!). (posted
7.00)

And
to grant even
more kudos
to Bachelor,
Daniel Sellington,
BACHELOR's
hero won a
KISS (Knight
in Shining
Silver) award
from RT for
being one
of their reviewer's
favorite heroes
of the month.

The
hardest thing
about typing
THE END (which
is otherwise
one of life's
truly grand
experiences!)
is leaving the
characters behind.
I don't so much
mind leaving
the hero and
heroine, who
are blissfully
settled. It's
the other characters
I find hard
to abandon,
those who haven't
had their own
stories tied
up into a neat
little bow.
Daniel Sellington
was a lonely,
frightened little
boy in HOME
FIRES, and
I've never forgotten
him. Now he's
all delectably
grown up, burdened
by his father's
corrupt legacy
and an inheritance
he never wanted.
He's resigned
to a resolutely
solitary life
until his duty
is discharged.

Bet
you can guess
how long that
resolve lasts
after he meets
the right
woman.

Kathryn
Jordan knew
little more
about him than
that. It didn't
matter. It was
all she needed
to know.

She
had every intention
of marrying
him.

Her
sweat-dampened
fingers clenching,
she wrinkled
the grimy newspaper
she'd clutched
ever since she'd
found it blown
against the
soot-streaked
back wall of
The Schatz House
Billiard Hall
and Saloon.
Never one to
overlook the
slightest boon,
she'd snatched
it up. Another
crack in the
thin walls of
her home pitifully
armored against
the winds roaring
off the mountains
next winter,
she figured.
But then the
name Sellington,
in huge letters
black as Satan's
heart, had screamed
out at her from
the front page
of The Rocky
Mountain News.

She
forced her tight
grip to relax
and studied
the face that
claimed a full
quarter of the
page. Edward
Sellington,
whom she'd heard
her mother curse
every single
day of the last
fifteen years,
stared coolly
back at her.
He'd been a
handsome man,
she thought
dispassionately;
she'd always
imagined him
as monstrously
disfigured,
as if his outer
husk must reveal
the evil harbored
within. Instead,
if the artist
could be trusted,
he'd owned patrician
features. Only
his eyes, beautifully
shaped and framed
by elegantly
arched brows,
hinted at something
else; he had
mean eyes. She
couldn't have
said what made
them mean, but
anyone who grew
up in her neighborhood
would understand
exactly what
she meant, and
know enough
to steer clear
of them.

Pity
her father hadn't
known.

"Sure
were a handsome
one, weren't
he?" The
woman to her
left nudged
a bare, plump
elbow into Kathryn's
ribs. "Think
this one looks
anythin' like
him?"

Kathryn
eyed her. Cheap
red satin, as
shiny in the
August heat
as the woman's
lavishly exposed
skin, erupted
above and below
her tightly
cinched waist.
Though the dress
was aggressively
improper, Kathryn
couldn't help
envying the
ventilation
as she sweated
in her heavy
black mourning
dress, handed
down from a
generous employer.
Former employer,
she amended
bitterly, and
formerly generous,
for Mrs. Chivington
had been anything
but generous
when she fired
her after her
son, Richard,
claimed Kathryn's
behavior was
improper - when
it had been
her emphatic
lack of impropriety
to which he'd
truly objected.
Mrs. Chivington
had made certain
that no other
of Denver's
leading matrons
would ever hire
Kathryn for
anything, either.

The
gloomy, stifling
dress had been
the best Kathryn
could dredge
up on short
notice. She'd
hoped the mourning
garb might engender
a bit of sympathy.
She could use
every advantage
she could get.

"I
imagine," Kathryn
said, "that
this one's very
much like his
father." Edward
Sellington looked
like the type
that would breed
true.

"Oooh," the
woman cooed,
a grin of anticipation
curving her
red-glossed
lips. "Seems
hardly fair,
does it? Rich
as that, and
looks, too?"

There
was little doubt
why the woman,
and three dozen
others, had
turned up here
at two o'clock
on a steaming
Tuesday afternoon.
They clustered
in front of
a great iron
gate, the solid
black bars as
sturdy as any
that caged a
fierce zoo creature.
Except these
bars, of course,
were meant to
keep the animals
out.

She
recognized old
Blind Willie,
bent over his
twisted oak
cane, who was
no more blind
than she was.
And Mrs. O'Neill,
painfully thin
and pale, whose
husband had
died of a lung
hemorrhage three
months ago,
leaving her
with five children
under the age
of six -- and,
by the looks
of things, one
more to arrive
any day. Though
Kathryn didn't
know the names
of any of the
others, she
recognized them,
too, the residents
of tent villages
and tenements
and vermin-infested
boardinghouses,
equally split
between confidence
men, - and women
- thieves, and
the honestly
desperate. Oh
yes, she recognized
them.

She
was one of them.

And,
just like every
one of them,
she wanted a
piece of the
Sellington millions.

Up
by the gate,
a man with the
cadaverous look
of a lung patient
whacked a stick
across the bars,
keeping up a
steady clang. "Let
us in!" he
shouted. "We
just wants to
talk to the
bloke!"

The
red-clad woman
curled a plump
lip. "Oh,
yeah, that's
gonna get them
to let us in." She
peered at the
paper in Kathryn's
hand. "Say
anything in
there about
him? What this
one's like?"

"It
doesn't say
much about him." But
the News had
plenty else
to say.

Though
she already
knew much of
what the paper
had printed,
she'd read every
word twice.
The article
had gone back
to the beginning,
to the mysterious
disappearance
of Edward Sellington.
One of the richest
men in New York,
his mining interests
in Colorado
had only expanded
that unimaginable
wealth. But
nearly fifteen
years ago, he,
along with his
wife and young
son, had vanished
without a trace.

His
mother had spent
years searching
the west for
him. Finally,
she'd gone into
the monolithic
mansion Edward
had built on
Arapahoe Street
and never come
out again. Rumor
had it grief
had finally
driven her mad.

There
was no fresh
news for years.
Children avoided
the looming
house, telling
stories of the
crazed woman
and restless
ghosts. The
newspapers moved
on to more timely
topics. But
then, five years
ago, Edward
Sellington's
long lost son,
Daniel, had
suddenly reappeared
to claim his
heritage.

Just
as they had
this week, the
newsmen had
descended immediately,
but he'd been
unwilling to
talk, steadfastly
refusing to
explain what
happened to
him or his father
all those years
ago. He hadn't
stayed in town
more than a
few months before
disappearing
back from where
he came... or
so they'd all
believed.

Except
that he'd been
here all along.
In Denver, in
an ordinary
house in Curtis
Park, living
under the name
of Daniel Hall.
It was as mysterious
and intriguing
as the rest
of his story.

Here,
where she could
gain access
to him, and
to his fortune.
And to discover
it now, this
very week, when
the rope she'd
been clinging
to for years
had finally
unraveled to
one thin, fraying
thread. When
she'd lost her
job and her
sister in the
space of a day.

It
was almost as
if Fate were
finally taking
a hand, giving
her a chance
to reclaim all
that they'd
lost.

And
all she had
to do now was
figure out how
the hell to
manage it.

The
mob pressed
around her,
the smell and
the heat and
the worry unsettling
her stomach. "Excuse
me," she
said, and squeezed
by a well-dressed
young man with
the sharp-eyed
look of a gambler.
She gave wide
berth to an
old man with
the stooped
posture of one
who'd spent
years hunched
over a gold
pan, praying
for a nugget
-- she'd caught
a whiff of him
when she'd first
arrived, and
once was more
than enough.

"Givin'
up?" the
woman called
after her, grinning.
"Good!
That's all the
more for the
rest of us!"

But
she couldn't
give up. Kathryn
stopped at the
edge of the
throng, where
the air was
clearer, her
mind whirling
with possibilities
and half-formed
plans as she
watched a young,
straw-haired
boy work his
way through
the crowd as
well, his nimble
fingers dipping
into pockets
and handbags,
coming back
out empty. As
he edged by
her, she tapped
him on the shoulder.

"If
you hope to
make a profit," she
said, "you'd
do well to pick
a richer crowd
than this."

He
looked up at
her, surprise
in his brown
eyes. Then a
gap-toothed
smile split
his narrow face."You
saw, huh? Damn.
See why I gotta
practice on
someone?" he
asked. "Ain't
no one here
likely to bother
to drag me off
to the station,
even if'n they
catch me. They
don' like the
cops any better'n
me."

"I
see," she
said. "Still,
I'd make sure
you didn't pinch
so much as a
penny, should
you find one.
The police would
be the least
of your problem,
if any of these
people happened
to catch you."

"Naw,
ain't nobody
'round here
quick enough
to nab me."

It
was true that
a good share
of his intended
victims were
either old,
infirm, drunk,
or some combination
of the three.
Still, he reminded
her too much
of her younger
brother Thomas
a few years
ago for her
to want to see
him beaten for
thievery.

"I could," she
informed him. "Besides,
it never hurts
to be careful." She
jabbed a finger
in the direction
of a tall, lean
figure clad
in brown-flecked
tweed who appeared
deep in conversation
with Blind Willie. "He
looks like he
might be able
to keep up with
you, too."

Speculation
leaped into
the boy's eyes. "Nice
suit."
"I wouldn't
try it, if I
were you."

"But
you ain't me." He
cocked his head. "You
gonna cry me
out?"

She
debated only
briefly. The
child's moral
development
was hardly her
concern, and
she'd learned
long ago that
worrying about
her own family
was all she
could manage.
Not to mention
that, from the
looks of him,
the boy could
use the contents
of Willie's
new friend's
pockets far
more than he
could. Ethics
and legalities
were trivialities
when measured
against survival. "Who
am I to interfere
with free enterprise?"

His
smile grew cheeky,
then submerged
to a frown of
concentration.
He eased behind
an enormous
woman in green
calico, brushed
against the
back of the
man.

Kathryn
suppressed a
twinge of guilt.
Now where had
that come from?
She thought
she'd rid herself
of that inconvenient
and useless
emotion years
ago.

The
man's head snapped
up, and Kathryn
tensed in preparation.
Despite all
her good intentions
about staying
out of others'
business, she
couldn't let
the boy be captured.

The
thief froze,
but when his
target didn't
move again,
he took a slow
step backward.
Kathryn caught
a glimpse of
a thick black
leather wallet
before it disappeared
into the depths
of the kid's
pocket. He flashed
her a quick
thumbs-up before
speeding off
down the street.

Well,
at least the
boy knew when
to take his
winnings and
run, she thought,
watching him
scurry around
the corner. "And
how about you,
Ma'am?"

Her
heart startled
into an uneven
rhythm as she
looked back
to find the
thief's victim
had managed
to slip up beside
her. Raised
in a place where
inattentiveness
could mean death,
she was seldom
caught unaware.

"Excuse
me?" she
asked carefully,
grateful that
the swath of
black veil falling
from her hat
brim shielded
her expression.

"And
what's your
story? What
do you want
from Daniel
Sellington?"

His
waistcoat matched
his jacket,
an autumn-hued
tweed of decent
quality, baggily
cut. Ink smudged
his otherwise
crisply white
collar. He hunched
over a thin
pad of paper,
pencil in hand,
the brim of
his black felt
bowler hiding
his face.

A
reporter, she
thought in disgust.
Every six months
or so one of
that species
ventured to
the right bank
of the Platte,
made earnest
speeches about
the power of
the press to
facilitate change,
and wrote heart-rending
stories about
the pitiable
conditions to
be found in
Denver's poorest
neighborhoods.
Stories that
also managed
to hint subtly
that if those
poor souls who
survived there
-- lived was
too optimistic
a word for it
- had only worked
harder, been
smarter, made
better choices,
they wouldn't
be in such a
deplorable state
in the first
place.

Nothing
ever changed.

"Ma'am?" he
repeated without
so much as glancing
at her, all
the while scribbling
away furiously.

How
dare he? How
dare he use
their misery,
their fragile
hopes, to sell
his newspapers?

She'd
not actually
expected to
meet Daniel
Sellington today.
Her mission
had been more
investigative
in nature, although,
just in case,
she'd formulated
a weak story
about the Ladies'
Assistance Committee
and a new orphanage.
Now, however,
her overactive
imagination
sprang to the
ready.

"I
don't want anything
from Daniel
Sellington,"
she said softly.

"Of
course not." He
flipped to a
new page. She
allowed a distinct
quaver to enter
her voice.

"I'm
here to see
Daniel Hall."

"Oh?" His
pencil lead
was worn to
a nub. He glared
at it for a
moment, swore,
and tossed it
away before
pulling another
from behind
his left ear.

The least he
could do, she
thought resentfully,
was look at
the person he
was interviewing.
But then she
doubted she
was a person
to him; she
was simply a
possible story.

"I'm
here to --" one
pitiful sob
should do, she
judged "--
to beg him
to support his
children."

"What?" The
fresh lead splintered
against the
page. His head
whipped up,
gaze arrowing
to her at last.

Oh,
unfair! He was
younger than
she'd thought,
his hard, aristocratic
features saved
from being too
grimly severe
by the thick
fringe of dark
hair curling
from beneath
the brim of
his hat. But
it was his eyes
that caught
her, the hot
and brutal blue
of the August
sky, undiminished
by the thin
barrier of his
gold-framed
spectacles.
Eyes that had
no doubt caused
too many women
to spill far
too many stories
to this man.

It
would do him
good, she decided,
to waste his
time running
all over town
in a futile
attempt to verify
her story. Or
to print something
wildly inaccurate
and be called
on the carpet
by Daniel Sellington
himself. Not
to mention it
would hardly
make her unhappy
to see a Sellington
publicly portrayed
in a less than
flattering light.

"His
children," she
repeated.

"Children," he
said flatly.

"Yes." She
warmed to her
role. "Three
in four years." She
gripped her
handbag in both
hands and pulled
it snug against
her belly. "So
far," she
added in a shy
whisper.

"His...
children."

Clearly
not the quickest
fellow in the
profession,
for all his
fine looks.
Perhaps it was
just as well
he was so handsome;
it was Fate's
compensation
for his other
deficiencies.

"His... our children," she
said slowly,
to make certain
he caught it
all.

"Daniel... Hall's."

"That's
what he told
me his name
was." She
groped in her
handbag and
pulled out a
graying, wrinkled
handkerchief. "He
said he l...
he... loved
me. But his
wife - his wife,
she..." Sticking
the kerchief
beneath her
veil, she wailed
into it.

"His
wife."

"That
was what he
told me." She
looked pointedly
at his hand,
hovering motionless
over the pad. "Shouldn't
you be writing
this down?"

"Oh.
Of course."

"What
paper did you
say you worked
for again?"

"Oh...
whoever. Whoever
pays me." He
waved the pencil
in a vague circle.

Yes,
it was a very
good thing the
man at least
had looks.

"Yes,
his wife. I
know it was
wrong of me,
but, but --"

"But
you loved him," he
said without
inflection,
those outrageous
blue eyes sharpening
in a way that
made her wonder
if she'd underestimated
him after all.

Too
much wailing,
she concluded,
retreating into
an occasional
watery sniff. "She
had all the
money, he said.
That's why he
couldn't support
us the way he
wanted to, the
way he promised
he would when
he could figure
out a way to
divorce her
and marry me
without losing
everything."

He
contemplated
her as a sprinkler
cart, pulled
by a pair of
massive draft
horses, rumbled
by in the street
behind him,
spraying the
road to keep
down the dust.
The cascade
of fine droplets
captured the
sunlight and
shimmered, the
suggestion of
a rainbow arching
behind the reporter.

The
city never watered
her street.
There, passing
vehicles and
wandering drunks
stirred up the
road until you
tasted the dust
in your mouth
every time you
stepped outside.

"I
don't suppose," he
said, "that
it's occurred
to you that
someone else
was simply appropriating
Mr. Sellington's
-- Hall's name,
and that it
wasn't him at
all that...?" His
gaze dropped
to her stomach,
and a flush
of red that
might have been
the heat colored
his strong neck.

"Oh,
no, it's him,
all right." She
dabbed at her
eyes. "I
followed him
home once, you
see --"

"Had
your suspicions
even then, did
you?"

"I
did not! I was
only... I could
not bear to
say goodbye
to him that
night, you understand,
and I wanted
to see where
he lived with
my own eyes,
so I could have
that image of
him to comfort
me when we were
apart."

"Hmm." He
inspected her
from the ragged,
feather-tufted
crown of her
hat to the scuffed
boots peeking
beneath the
accordion-pleated
hem of her skirt. "And
the mourning
gear is because...?"

"It
is symbolic
of the death
of my dreams!" she
cried, wondering
why, despite
her best efforts,
she'd never
been able to
make her living
on the stage.
Horace Steck,
the philistine
who cast the
plays at the
Palace Theater,
obviously had
no taste, or
he would have
cast her despite
her refusal
to demonstrate
her skills in
a more private
venue. "He
lied to me,
all these years!
The children
and I lived
in a hovel,
when all this
time he could
have married
me, kept us
in the style
that his children
deserve!"

"Ah." He
nodded sympathetically. "You
are so very
understanding."

"So
I've been told." He
tapped his pencil
against the
pad, a steady
rhythm in time
with the consumptive's
banging on Daniel
Sellington's
front gate. "And
your name is?"

"Lavina
Thrush. L-A-V-I-" "I
believe I can
manage to spell
it."

"Oh,
of course you
can! Clever
man like you,
writing all
those words
every day."

"It
is very taxing.
Few people appreciate
that."

She
sniffled. "That...
that was what
Daniel always
said! That I
knew how to appreciate things."

"I'm
sure." He
flipped his
notebook shut
and stepped
back, jamming
his pencil back
behind his ear
where one of
those disobedient
waves embraced
it. Perhaps,
Kathryn thought
irrelevantly,
he'd tip his
hat at her as
he left, and
she could see
if the rest
of his hair
was just as
gorgeous. "I'd
best be going.
There's much
work to be done
if I want to
get my story
finished before
the next issue
goes to press."

She
stretched an
entreating hand
toward him. "You
will... you
will help us,
then? In your
article? Encourage
Daniel to live
up to his responsibilities
and properly
care for his
family?"

"I'm
sure you'll
be very pleased
with the results,
ma'am." He
disappeared
into the crowd
and Kathryn
sighed. He'd
hadn't once
doffed that
hat.

Still,
he'd proved
to be an effective
distraction
from her problems.
She only wished
she'd be able
to witness the
results of the
seed she'd just
planted. She'd
almost be sorry
if the handsome
young reporter
got into too
much trouble.

Her
own problems,
however, could
no longer be
ignored. A scuffle
broke out on
the far side
of the crowd
when a young
man refused
to relinquish
his prized spot
near the gate
to a more recent,
and much larger,
arrival. Shouts
went up and
a small circle
cleared as the
two combatants
tumbled to the
ground.

"You've
got it!" another
replied, and
the enthusiastic
spectators closed
in to obscure
her view.

Standing
around here
was doing her
no good at all.
She'd make one
circle of Sellington's
house and go
home to ponder
the dilemma
out of the sun.

It
was not at all
the kind of
place one would
expect to find
a rich man living,
a far cry from
the stone castle
where his crazed
grandmother
resided. Though
the neighborhood
was decent,
it was hardly
fashionable.
The house itself
was much like
its neighbors:
simple, sturdy,
charming, solidly
built of brick
the color of
the sunrise,
faced with rows
of small, identical
windows. It
looked like
any one of a
dozen boardinghouses
in this part
of the city;
perhaps it had
been one once,
though she couldn't
imagine why
a man of Sellington's
wealth and position
would want to
live in rooms
formerly inhabited
by middle-class
bachelors.

But
the other houses
on the street
had low, white-painted
fences, easily
climbed, easily
overlooked.
Here the iron
barrier, at
least seven
feet tall and
tipped with
evil-looking
spikes, marched
all the way
around the property.
The area it
enclosed was
as modest as
the house, no
more than two
standard lots,
perhaps fifty
by one hundred
and twenty-five
feet.

It
was a place
that its owner
could easily
maintain with
a few hours
of effort on
Sunday afternoon.
But here, too,
Sellington's
house differed
from its neighbors,
for no less
than three men
worked steadily,
pulling weeds
from the meticulous
flower beds
and shearing
a uniform eighth
of an inch from
the neatly clipped
grass. Riotous
banks of flowers
curved shaggy
rainbows at
the base of
the fence and
curled lovingly
along the house;
bright butterflies
swooped over
the workers'
heads, who paid
no more notice
to them than
they did to
the people who
hollered to
them through
the fence.

What
a waste! Her
fingers trailed
slowly over
black bars gleaming
with fresh paint.
She could have
cared well for
her entire family
with the money
that Sellington
spent caring
for his lawn.
It only served
to prove how
careless the
rich were with
their wealth
-- which, she
supposed, suited
her purpose
well. It should
be all easier
to separate
him from some
of it, one way
or the other.

The
house sat on
a corner lot,
and Kathryn
turned, happy
to leave the
mob at the front
gate behind.
Trees had been
planted here
two decades
ago; now twin
lines of oaks
reached above,
casting blessed
shade over the
street. There
was another
gate on this
side, guarding
a graveled drive
that led into
stables nearly
as large as
the house. A
young man slumped
against the
gate, shoulders
drooping, cap
low. A familiar
man, she realized
as she drew
closer.

"Joey?" she
ventured.

"Yeah.
Whaddya want?" he
snarled.

"Is
that any way
to speak to
your elders,
Joey? Especially
one who didn't force
you to return
the nickel you
swindled from
her brother
throwing dice
when you were
ten?"

He
tried to peer
under the black
netting. "Miz
Jordan? Is that
you?"

"It's
me." She
rolled the veil
up, tucking
it firmly beneath
a band of ribbon. "Whew,
that's better."

His
eyes widened. "Who
died?"

"Nobody
died, Joey."

"Why
ya rigged out
in that get-up,
then?"

"It's
a long story."

"I've
got plenty of
time," he
said glumly.

"Oh?"

"I'm
gonna lose my
job." Disconsolate,
he slid down
to sit with
his heels against
his skinny rump,
hands drooping
between his
spread knees.

"You
had a job?" Joey
Gibson had been
one of a dozen
adolescents
who'd, along
with her younger
brother Tommy,
roamed the streets
like a pack
of jackals,
looking for
all the world
like each one
of them would
either be behind
bars or dead
by the age of
twenty.
"So that's
why I haven't
seen you around
in a while."

"Yup," he
said proudly. "I
was running
a game over
on Larimar last
summer and a
guy offered
me a whole dollar
to watch his
horse for an
hour. Did such
a good job he
hired me right
on to help with
his horses,
permanent-like."

Kathryn's
gaze moved from
Joey to the
white-washed
stables just
beyond the gate. "Mr.
Sellington?"

"Mr. Hall," he
clarified. "If'n
that's what
he wants to
be called, that's
what I'm gonna
call him."

"Did
you know who
he really was?"

"Never
told me, but
it weren't no
secret among
the help. But
I never woulda
ratted him out.
Hell -- beg
pardon -- he
paid us all
three times
the going rate,
for half the
work! I ain't
dumb enough
to chance messin'
that up!"

"I'm
sure you're
not."

"It
was that stupid
Gracie." He
swiped a thin,
bare forearm
under his nose. "Thinkin'
she should have
a different,
uh, position than
downstairs maid,
if ya know what
I mean."
He reddened.

"I
believe I do."

"Got
all huffy when
Mr. Hall kept
turning her
down, went runnin'
to the papers
with the real
story. And now
she's messed
it up for all
of us!" he
wailed. "You
don't think
he'll fire all
of you over
Gracie's mistake,
do you?"

"But
he's leavin'!
What'll he need
with all of
us when he's
gone?"

"Leaving?" He
couldn't leave.
How could she
marry him if
he left?

"Yeah." Joey
ripped the cap
off his head
and crushed
it between his
outsized, growing-puppy
hands. "Heard
the cook tell
the head groom.
He ain't stayin'
here, now that
he's been found
out."

"Did
you hear where
he was goin'?"

"Minnesota,
they said. He's
got people there,
they all trooped
down here last
Christmas. Nice
people. Brought
us all back
beaver hats."

"Minnesota." That
far away, he'd
be no good to
her at all.
She had to get
to him first,
and quickly. "On
the train, I
suppose?"

"Naw,
he figures the
reporters'll
be watching
for him there.
Gonna take the
stage north
first thing
tomorrow." His
eyes narrowed
suspiciously
. "Say,
you ain't figurin'
you might succeed
where Gracie
failed, are
ya? I mean,
you're a lot
prettier and
all, but I'd
hate to be the
one that sicced another problem
on Mr. Hall."

"Of
course not," she
assured him,
while her thoughts
raced. It didn't
give her much
time, and it
was an enormous,
and maybe ridiculous,
gamble any way
you looked at
it. But what
choice did she
have? It wasn't
as if she had
many other options.
How much more
did she have
to lose? "But
Joey? You take
a quarter off
Tommy anytime
you want, and
I promise I
won't say a
word."

Led
by hope, chased
by desperation,
she raced down
the street at
a speed far
too fast for
decorum.

Perhaps
it was too late
to save her
sister's soul.

But
surely it was
not too late
to ransom her
body.

In
the dim, malodorous
shadow of the
Swansea Smelter,
a pregnant young
widow named
Moira O'Neill,
a toddler slung
over her left
hip, stepped
outside her
ragged tent,
in a small,
squalid city
of equally ragged
tents, to call
her brood for
what promised
to be an inadequate
dinner. Just
beyond her door,
she nearly stumbled
across a paper-wrapped
package. Too
weary to be
curious, she
opened it without
hope and stared
at the thick
wad of bills
inside for a
full minute
before her brain
comprehended
what her eyes
saw.

"Sweet
Jesus," she
repeated over
and over, as
she kissed her
baby's cheeks,
his nose, his
precious mouth. "Sweet
Jesus, we're
saved!"

Six
blocks away,
in a bare room
on the top floor
of a crowded
tenement building,
a young man
with old lungs
who'd come to
Denver for the
air and stayed
to die, wept
over a pile
of gleaming
coins.

And,
across town,
on a corner
where the gas
streetlight
hadn't worked
for six months,
a man lurked
in the darkened
doorway of an
abandoned saloon
and spied on
the gloomy shack
across the street.
He watched the
thin young pick-pocket
who claimed
the place warily
approach the
black-robed
priest who'd
taken up residence
in front of
the shanty an
hour ago.

He
continued to
watch as the
priest handed
the boy a sack
that held two
pairs of pants,
three new shirts,
boots, and a
good wool coat,
and informed
him that he
should report
to St. Peter's
School Monday
morning, for
his tuition,
room, and ample
board had been
paid for the
next four years.
And when he
saw disbelief
on the boy's
face change
to hope, and
the thief who'd
plucked his
pocket that
afternoon leap
into the air,
fist pumping
in exultation,
Daniel Sellington
smiled.

He
was pleased
with the day's
work. His only
failure had
been his inability
to locate his... "lover." Though
what he planned
to do with the
lying wench
once he found
her, he hadn't
been sure. Still,
not a bad day's
work at all.